


And my eyes, like taillights, are still trailing along behind those trains

by XiaRobotto



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: 1950s, Action/Adventure, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 00:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XiaRobotto/pseuds/XiaRobotto
Summary: April 1952.Curt Mega is sent on a mysterious mission on Soviet grounds, aboard the Trans-Siberian train. As he struggles to grasp the goal of his mission, an encounter with another spy helps him, while making his job more difficult. The only way to stay safe on this hostile territory is to work as a team - but the risk of opposite tempers colliding is high...





	1. One-way ticket to Socialism

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this fic, but most of all welcome to early 1950s Soviet Union! The idea for this story sparked when I started getting interested in the Trans-Siberian railway. I did quite a lot of research on the railway, but also on the USSR and the Soviet regime, that I'm hopefully going to be using throughout the story. I hope I didn't make any major historical error, and I hope the fic reflects my interest with all things Cold War and my love for these characters! 
> 
> (Title is from "La Prose du Transsibérien et de la petite Jehanne de France", by Blaise Cendrars. How fitting)
> 
> Enjoy reading :) Please leave kudos if you liked this chapter or want to see more, and don't hesitate to give me any criticism (or compliment haha) you might have - I'm always looking for ways to improve!

Getting the wrath of Cynthia Houston was never fun. For any mistake, big or small, you could end up thoroughly cleaning her office, filing her paperwork or, as was the case here, being sent on the worst mission ever given by the CIA. 

Curt didn't know what he liked best, sorting out Cynthia's folders in neat little piles, or sitting for  _ two days _ straight inside of a train, wondering when  _ anything  _ interesting would happen. 

Yet that was the ordeal he was about to be sent to. What was worse than finding yourself on Russian grounds, in the middle of the Cold War, trapped in a little closed compartment for days, with absolutely no means of escape? In a way, Curt felt like he was being nicely delivered to the Russians by Cynthia - “here’s your order, a fresh, pre-packaged, ready-to-torture American”... And he didn’t even know what he’d done, this time. Maybe he’d been a little too bold while following the Egyptian foreign affairs Minister in France last month. Or maybe he’d just forgotten to bring Cynthia her coffee at the last division meeting. Whatever it was, Cynthia gave him the plainest briefing: go to the USSR; gather intel on this Soviet trainline; and don’t fuck it up.

 

When Curt got on the plane, his heart sank a little. This wasn’t his first time in the USSR - Cynthia wasn’t  _ that _ deranged. But as experienced a spy he was starting to be, or as believable his German accent was, the nagging feeling of anxiety never went away. Many of his colleagues would do anything to be in his place, at the heart of the action; he, on the other hand, only felt like a small fish in a sea full of sharks. Of course he knew his job was dangerous, deadly. But it was peculiar to spies to ignore that fact. Hide your fear behind a bravado, and go shoot some bad guys. These were the unconscious rules they all followed, though some better than others.

The plane landed in Berlin, and as he stepped onto the tarmac, Curt swiftly replaced his American passport with a fake one. He shoved it inside his pocket, and made his way to the border checkpoint, repeating his new identity in his head. Ernst Meier, civil servant in charge of energy in East Germany. Honestly, he still maintained that they could’ve given him something easier. The number of books and articles about gas infrastructures in the USSR and Germany he had to ingest before going on the mission was surreal - and it didn’t help that the subject was just so… _boring_. Maybe that was another one of Cynthia’s little traps; by now, he knew she’d do anything to make his missions a living hell. Which, paradoxically, always pushed him to come prepared. 

Having retrieved his small suitcase, Curt unhurriedly arrived at the East-German border. Two policemen carefully watched him approach, and he gave them a polite smile. They seemed doubtful and wary; Curt thought that they probably weren’t used to people trying to cross the border this way around. In the last few months, the relationship between East and West Germany had become ever more strained, which only made life more difficult for spies like him. Even so, when Curt showed the guards his plane ticket for Moscow, his perfect German warmed them up, and he was free to hop into his second plane.

 

Mere hours later, he was on Soviet territory. He was picked up right outside the door by a quiet taxi driver sent by the authorities, who only exchanged enough German words with him to explain that he was dropping him off at his hotel. Curt was thankful for the silence of the car: anything to avoid small talk in a foreign language. They passed through busy streets lined with tall buildings, towering over hurried citizens who all had somewhere to be. Curt peered through the window, close enough to show interest, but with a nonchalance that proved he wasn’t new to Soviet life scenes. He knew that his taxi was following a carefully mapped-out route, meant to offer him a custom-made view of the city. And judging from the glances the driver was stealing at him, he was expected to give some kind of response. A few comments on the admirable architecture seemed to be enough for him to leave the taxi untouched.

When Curt was finally led to his room by a polite doorman, and he closed the door behind him, he let himself relax. His guard wasn't down, per say: there was never a moment where he could let himself be completely vulnerable. But at least he was alone for the first time in this country. A quick expert glance around the room confirmed that nothing was bugged or taped. Relieved, Curt allowed himself to read the briefing one last time, but it remained cryptic and brought nothing new to him. He’d just have to wait and see, starting tomorrow. A big day of travel awaited, and he couldn’t say he was looking forward to it.

 

***

 

The next morning, Curt woke up to a fully laid out, typical breakfast inside of his room. It was a good thing he’d destroyed everything linked with the briefing... The Soviets didn’t bother with locked doors, and let themselves in when needed. Curt wasn’t as unsettled as he had once been, but this was yet another reminder that he was always on quick sands here, always on the fence.

At the precise hour he’d been told, Curt was picked up in front of his hotel by a black taxi. Once again, they drove silently across the city, before reaching their destination: Moscow’s train station, a beautifully ornate building towering over a jam-packed square. Curt thanked his driver before getting off. The contrast between the muted cab and the loud crowd was unnerving. All around the square, people talked and shouted, buzzing with excitement over the event they were about to partake in. Curt didn’t have to fake his look of wonder, as he joined the crowd in search of information - and company. Only a minute later, a smiling Russian lady came up to him, asking for his invitation. Upon seeing his occupation, she led him to a small group of quiet men, his fellow energy handlers. Curt introduced himself warmly, and thankfully, he only had to suffer through a few minutes of the conversation, before it was interrupted by a sudden commotion.

 

A voice over loud speakers announced the arrival of the Soviet Transports representative. The audience promptly went silent, as a lumpy man, accompanied by his team - or bodyguards, Curt couldn’t tell - stepped onto the middle of the square. He theatrically extended his arms, and proclaimed in Russian:

“Comrades, friends, from the Soviet Union and beyond, welcome!”

 

A cheer crossed the crowd. Curt clapped along, suddenly happy to be even a little familiar with Russian. The man motioned for silence again.

“Over 150 years ago, our people built a railway to cross the entirety of our grand country: the Trans-Siberian railway. It knew an astounding success, and helped our eastern Siberian brothers to make the most of their land, and understand the real extent of the social Revolution. Now, we have generously returned to our Chinese comrades a railway of their own, so that they too can know the success that our nation experiences. So join us, for today, we celebrate our technological prowess of a railway, symbol of our great nation, and its friendship with the People’s Republic of China!”

 

With that, the audience applauded and cheered wildly. Curt did the same, of course, but really, he was just wondering if all this commotion was necessary for a simple  _ railway _ . He took advantage of the tumult to look around him, trying to notice any suspicious behavior. His attention was caught by a young man, a few feet from him, who was fluttering energetically throughout groups. All Curt could think was that he was radiant; it was painfully hard not to see him, chatting with a warm smile, quickly jotting down on a small notebook. From where he stood, Curt had time to study his appearance: long brown hair, nonchalantly slicked back; a pair of thin round glasses that gave him a smart air; and again, that crooked smile that made his eyes squint ever so slightly.

Without a warning, those smiling eyes suddenly met Curt’s, which unsettled him. Before he had time to react, the man had slipped off to somewhere else, leaving Curt to wonder what odd intuition he was having. Somehow, he knew he’d have to keep an eye on that guy. He seemed to be collecting information, which was already a first red flag. Finally, Curt felt like he had a lead, on this mission he didn’t know anything about. Was he here for simple basic intelligence? Was there some kind of arms deal he was supposed to find out about? Or maybe secret negociations were about to take place, on the train or upon its arrival?

 

With more questions and no answers, Curt took part in the crowd to board the Trans-Siberian train. During his travel, he would have all the time he needed to dwell on his mission. And now, as he prepared to enter what would be his golden cage for the next few days, he couldn’t keep his heart from thumping in fear and excitement.

The real fun was finally starting. 


	2. Code-naming and double-dealing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I found the time to wrap up Chapter 2! Once again, I tried to make the elements of this chapter as historically accurate as possible, so I hope you'll enjoy :) Don't forget to leave kudos or follow the story to be notified of the next chapters, and if you have anything to say, feel free to leave a comment! Until next time, beware of strangers in trains. ;)

Curt didn’t even have to place his suitcase under his seat. He simply watched, while the young hostess who had insisted on helping him got back up and turned to look at him. She shot him a wide smile, wide enough to make the men in the packed corridor turn their heads towards them. “Have a good trip!”, she told him in Russian, and the interjection rang more like an order to his ears. He gave her a polite smile in return, then sat down where he was motioned to.

He was in a comfortable first class compartment, like every other guest who had been welcomed aboard. The inside of the train looked rustic but new, and the warm tones made the atmosphere cozy. Curt focused his attention away from the decor, and back on the men trickling one by one inside his wagon. He instantly recognised the men he had been led to minutes earlier, and he sighed internally. Of course they had to have him sit with the most boring travellers. He could’ve been set up with the politicians, the journalists, the athletes, the artists, but here he sat with the officials. Thrilling. All hopes were lost when one last government official took the empty seat in front of him. Already thinking of the long way this was going to be, Curt made an effort to animate a polite conversation, still not engaging quite enough to make it last.

 

It was only minutes later that they were interrupted by a certain man, bursting in the compartment. Curt looked up to see none other than the young man who’d caught his eye earlier, still sporting his smug smile.

“Good morning! Oh, well, that’s curious,” he suddenly started in Russian, quickly switching to French. It took only seconds for a hostess to appear by his side.

“I don’t mean to bother, but this man seems to be seated in my spot,” the man further explained in French, trying to loosely translate in broken Russian, while motioning towards the man sitting opposite from Curt. The hostess seemed annoyed, and eager to get this issue over with. She only took a quick look at the agitated frenchman’s ticket, before quickly explaining the situation to the other man. The latter seemed surprised, like the other men in the wagon, but he did as he was told, and let himself and his luggage be led to somewhere else.

The whole situation was puzzling, at least from Curt’s point of view. He didn’t know exactly why, but he felt like something was off. In such a meticulously set-up event, any mistake was bound to jump out. And would the Soviets make a mistake as big as placing someone in the wrong compartment?

Curt studied the French man making himself at home in the wagon. Then, he got the notion that he was probably thinking about this a little too much. Mistakes happened anywhere. Even in the USSR.

The situation didn’t seem to disturb the newcomer too much. He started up the conversation again, first in French. “Well well, finally in the right compartment! It’s good that I moved, I was sat with the politicians. Don’t get me wrong, they’re interesting, but I’d rather have more down-to-earth conversations!”

He laughed, while the other men exchanged a puzzled look. They didn’t speak French, it seemed. It wasn’t Curt’s strong suit either; he could understand most of it, but speaking was out of the question. Nonetheless, his small knowledge was enough for him to notice that there was something curious about the man’s French accent - something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

 

“Sorry, my French isn’t the best,” Curt answered, purposefully forcing his German accent. Something lit up in the other man’s eyes, and he gave Curt a content smile. This man was being too warm around him, and Curt didn’t understand why. Yet, there was something in his behavior that intrigued him, and made him want to talk more to the newcomer.

“Oh, really? What a shame.” He switched to German, almost too easily. “Oh, but we didn’t even introduce ourselves.” He extended his hand towards every man in the compartment, who shook it before telling him their name.

“Ernst Meier,” Curt answered shortly, when his turn came.

“Pleasure. I’m André Morel.” André’s eyes smiled, as he shook Curt’s hand. “I’m a reporter for the French Communist Party. I’m writing a review about the Trans-Siberian and Soviet technology. You know, this is actually my first time in the Soviet Union - I’m so thrilled! I can’t believe we have the opportunity to travel on such an amazing train, I just…”

 

This guy talked too much. Curt almost regretted having his quiet colleague in front of him. The newcomer took up too much space for his liking. Curt kept his answers short, as André chatted on. But he somehow wanted to keep listening to this man. He seemed so open, though he talked only about the Soviet Union, and yet everything that came out of his mouth seemed smart or witty. Curt wanted to know more.

“How come you speak such good German?”, he asked in the middle of the conversation.

“What about you?”

André’s answer rang in his ears. Curt didn’t have to fake his confused look. Had he really been unmasked this easily? Was the KGB about to burst in, take him in, and -

“I’m just kidding!” André added with a wide, mischievous smile. Curt let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I was a translator during the war. I was mostly in charge of translating military and industrial orders. We made quite a killing in our unit, if I may say so…"

André's laugh trailed off. An uncomfortable silence had filled the air at the mention of the war. It seemed André had forgotten that he was a French citizen in a compartment full of German officials. An apologetic look crossed his face, which Curt didn't even know was possible. "Don't worry," he said before André could add anything. "Those times are over now, aren't they?"

They exchanged a smile, and the other men relaxed slightly. Good catch, Curt thought. He decided to change the subject, and try to lead the conversation at the same occasion. If André was talkative, there was a chance that he could give him some information he needed. He'd take anything to have the slightest clue about his mission.

 

"I can’t wait to get to our destination. Sverdlovsk looks like a very promising city," Curt started calmly.

"Of course you do! Who wouldn’t be excited? I’ve read so many amazing things about it, I can’t believe they are going to be in front of my own eyes! Not to mention that it’s usually closed off to strangers...", André answered quickly, with passion in his voice.

"It’s a real privilege. Sverdlovsk has been a model for years in terms of energy. I don't think any European city has known its expansion in the last few years, it's incredible." See, Cynthia, I learnt my lesson, he thought.

  
“Two days make for a long journey, though,” Curt added, looking out the window. “Good thing I’m spending them in good company,” he finished with a smile. This time, it was Curt and not Ernst speaking. He caught André’s smile from the corner of his eye.

The conversation died down, and only the shuffling of the train filled the silent air. Curt watched the landscape go by in front of his eyes; they drove out of Moscow and into the land, passing the Volga, trailing on and on. As whimsical as it was, the view wasn’t enough entertainment for Curt.

  
André and Curt’s comrades were clearly not big talkers. They always spoke with restraint, refused to meet Curt’s eyes, and left it at small talk. One of them, Curt thought, was particularly fiddly. Overall, it was obvious that something was up, but Curt couldn’t find what. And he definitely wouldn’t find it while being stuck in a closed train-wagon.

  
This was a waste of his time. How could he continue his mission, when just leaving the wagon was suspicious? And to think that this was going to be the case for two days straight. But even if he found a way to exit, he had no information, no clue about what he was supposed to look for. Waiting was agony for him.

 

Curt was desperately trying to find some kind of occupation, when André pulled a book from his messenger bag. Curt watched him open it, meticulously take out his small notebook and a pen, push his glasses back up. Curiosity was gnawing at Curt. For five minutes that felt like hours, he watched as André took notes of his book. The silence was suffocating, and six minutes in, Curt blurted out what he’d been holding back.

  
“What are you reading?”

André looked up, surprise flashing on his face. He showed Curt the cover.

  
“The Rout, by Fadeyev. It’s half-translated in French. There are just… a lot of words I don’t know.” He gave Curt a pleading look. Curt had already heard this title, and vaguely knew it was a Soviet classic. This wasn’t a surprise coming from André, who knew – and liked – so much about the USSR. Curt shrugged, and came forward on his seat. “I can help,” he simply stated, gaining a relieved smile from André.

  
He gathered up all of his skills in Russian, and deciphered some words for his companion. The other passenger occasionally slipped into the conversation to help them. Only one was silent: the nervous man. Determined to put him to the test, Curt asked him about a word that he knew was simple enough for any Russian to know. The man was startled and Curt felt a small tinge of satisfaction when he saw him hesitate. He accepted his defeat easily. Curt’s hope strengthened. He finally felt like he was onto something.

A short half-hour later, the same man hurriedly stood up and excused himself. The wagon door closed behind him, and Curt started counting. After exactly 2 minutes and 25 seconds, the passenger opposite him followed.

  
Bingo.

Curt stole a glance at André, who seemed absorbed in his book. Now was his time to shine. André could find this suspicious, but he’d always preferred action rather than discretion anyway. He stood up with no explanation; but at the first step he made towards the door, a confident voice sounded behind him.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Curt turned around to find André’s piercing eyes on him.

“Sorry?”

“I don’t think you’ve noticed, but leaving now isn’t very smart. Who do you think these nice Russian hostesses work for?”

A chill ran down Curt’s spine. The KGB had eyes everywhere in the Soviet Union. Or rather, the Soviet Union was its eyes. He thought this train was a protective bubble; now, he started to understand that it was a cage.

A heavy silence followed, as Curt slowly sat back down in front of André. The Frenchman knew more than he showed, and it was scary. Curt was a good spy, but for some unknown reason, he found this situation unnerving. When he started again, he weighed his words carefully.

“Why are you telling me this?”

André simply smiled, taking his time to search through his bag. Curt watched, aching for any kind of response. His liberation came when André pulled out a pack of cigarettes, carefully chose one and brought it to his lips. His tone was nonchalant and deeply irritating.

“A match, maybe?”

Curt clenched his jaw, but took out his wallet nonetheless. André took his matchbox, his eyes lingering on the picture slipped inside; a smiling woman with a young boy at her side. “Your wife?”, André asked while striking his match. Curt nodded, and André calmly blew a wisp of smoke. “She’s pretty. No wonder she chose to be with you, Curt.”

 

The latter flinched, and instinctively started reaching for his missing gun. André quickly started again, this time in English, but checking the volume of his voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not against you. I was sent to assist you in your mission, just in case.”

Curt’s mind took time to adjust to this new British accent. How could he have been so blind? He knew there was something wrong with André’s French.

“Let me introduce myself. Well, again.” Curt saw his mouth twist into a self-satisfied smirk. “I’m Owen. Code name or not, you decide.” He shrugged, before continuing. “Oh, and I’m from MI6.” As if that was the most obvious and unimportant things of all.

Curt was baffled. He didn’t know what to tell this fellow spy, who had revealed himself so easily. Or maybe he had been the one revealing himself. Either way, Owen wasn’t afraid to show that he knew things about him.

“Why are you blowing your cover so early?”, Curt whispered aggressively. “Shouldn’t I not be aware of your presence?”

“Well, I wasn’t supposed to intervene, but you’re obviously off to a bad start. I clearly know more than you do, so I figured you could use my help,” Owen answered with the confidence of someone stating the obvious.

“That’s out of the question. I work alone.” Curt’s tone was cold, but Owen didn’t opt out.

“I think you’d rather not, love, unless you’re fine with compromising your mission after less than 24 hours on board.”

“Are you insulting me right now?”

Owen’s expression turned to over exaggerated surprise. “What? No, I’m not insulting, just… critiquing. Constructively.” A look of mischief lit his eyes for a brief moment. Curt winced, trying his best to keep his composure.

“Ugh, God, how can you expect me to work with you now? You’re insufferable.” Owen’s eyes widened, his mouth twisting into a surprised and bitter smile, before Curt added with a little smile; “Constructive criticism.”

Owen shook his head and let his eyes wander out the window. His expression turned to amusement, a small smile rising to his lips, mirroring Curt’s.

 

Who knew? Maybe he was better off with an ally. And though he still had to be careful, for the first time he thought that maybe now, he had a chance to avoid a dead-end.


	3. The Calm before Sverdlovsk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took SO long. And I'm sorry. I hope you'll still enjoy, I guess it was a way-longer-than-normal cliffhanger!!  
> The next and final chapter, on the other hand, is already mostly written - so you can expect that in the next month. Or year. We never know!  
> As always, feel free to follow the story to see how it ends, and to share your thoughts in the comments! Seeing what people think of this story always makes my day, and I still have a lot to learn :) Until next time, make sure to avoid doing anything stupid. Unlike Curt.

You would think that being a spy is always a thrilling game of hide-and-seek, a movie-like lifestyle where one catches villains with flare, every day of the week. Monologues about truth and justice, white-teeth heroes against shady gangsters, tales of friendship and camaraderie in the face of evil…

… But secret organizations aiming to destroy world order were not founded everyday, so spying consisted more often than not in quietly waiting and observing. To Curt’s dismay. And Owen’s delight, as it seemed. Now that Curt knew more about the other man’s identity, it was easier for him to notice Owen’s eyes, stealing glances at their compartment comrades. 

 

Curt was unironically impressed with Owen’s discretion. If he hadn’t been a spy himself, he probably wouldn’t have caught his eyes decrypting every seemingly insignificant move. And frankly, even if he  _ was _ a spy, he had trouble looking at Owen without him noticing. Granted, he probably should’ve directed his attention towards the other men instead; but didn’t he have a right to be careful? What proof did he have that Owen was truly here to help him? It was not for his own enjoyment that he was studying Owen’s face, but to find in it a fleeting sign of a possible betrayal. That was definitely it.

Curt didn’t really find the point of observing their compartment comrades anyway. It didn’t take much for him to know that they were suspicious, and bad at hiding it. Even so, there was no way him and Owen could ambush them in the compartment, or even on the train. Owen’s remark about the hostesses still resonated in Curt’s mind. If this place was anything like a miniature of the Soviet Union, he couldn’t risk doing anything stupid. And so, as Cynthia probably would’ve advised, he resolved to not doing much.

 

The sun was slowly starting to dip, casting a golden light on the glossy meadows outside. Watching the grass roll before his eyes, Curt reflected on the day coming to an end. The train had only left Moscow late in the morning, yet the hours just passed had felt like ages. Curt was deep in thoughts when someone knocked on the door. Before anyone could answer, a hostess let herself in, cordially explaining in both Russian and German that it was time for dinner. The order was clear enough, and all the men stood up, eager to stretch their heavy legs and escape their stuffy compartment. 

The restaurant car was nice enough, polished but not fancy or luxurious; as was the food they were served. The simple, traditional dishes were gladly welcomed by the passengers, for whom the morning’s petit fours were already a distant memory. There was excitement in the air, and conversation was made, about politics, the beautiful Russian landscape, the charming train staff. Thus, as Curt would put it, the dinner was boring and uneventful. Owen seemed to enjoy himself, joining in the debates with his clever comments, eliciting laughs and praises from his audience. Curt could’ve sworn that Owen’s side glances were expressively meant to get on his nerves. Did he always seek as much attention during his operations? If so, how come he wasn’t already imprisoned or dead by now? And to say that Curt didn’t label himself as the stealthy type…

His solution was to stay quiet, occasionally giving an opinion or approving of one, while trying to ignore Owen’s exuberance. Curt wouldn’t admit it, but he was tired, both from the journey and the awful feeling of being played by his agency. Alas, all hopes of him going to sleep vanished as soon as vodka was introduced. The cheerful mood resumed, men settled to play cards, and Curt tried to ignore the amused look Owen cast at him. Curt was still disturbed by how the British man seemed to be able to read right through his expression; all the while, remaining a mystery himself. 

The night dragged on, spirits lifted and blurred by the alcohol. Curt was thankful for his acquired resistance, through years of accommodation, to its dangerous effects. Alcohol had caused enough disasters in his short career to teach him lessons. His glass in hand, he carefully watched each passenger, waiting for one to let their guard down. This was the kind of environment he’d come to excel in; fancy restaurants, casinos, any place with too much money, confidence and drinking involved was bound to make tongues loose. In a way, he liked seeing people’s façades crumble, slowly revealing their true natures. Maybe that was why he was a spy. There was satisfaction in getting the truth out of your enemies, by any means necessary, when they knew nothing about you. Curt would rather expose their secrets than deal with his own.

 

Finally, some passengers started trickling back to their compartments. Owen excused himself graciously, escaping another card game with a polite smile. When the general attention turned back towards the cards, Owen caught Curt’s gaze and discreetly motioned him to follow. Curt saw that their compartment partners hadn’t noticed his leave, too absorbed in a thrilling conversation with a group of businessmen. However, he took into account the presence of the hostesses, still very sober and very aware. Curt had to let a few more travellers leave, before deeming it safe to join Owen back in their wagon. 

Nobody followed him there, but Owen’s expert eye didn’t miss his worry. He started moving to close the door, but Owen shot him a disapproving glance. Curt froze, feeling like a reprimanded and clueless schoolboy. It was only a second later, when a hostess appeared in the doorway, that he understood. 

“I will prepare your beds for the night, gentlemen, please stand to the side.”

Her tone was warm but definitive, so Curt and Owen gave her space, watching her magically turn the four seats into four bunks with expert hands. When her work was done, she took a step back, clasped her hands, and turned towards the two men with a pleasant smile. Curt didn’t know if she expected a thanks. Owen did, and he mirrored her smile, his voice like honey.

“Thank you so much,” he said in Russian - and in the manner of an over-excited tourist -, quickly switching back to German. “No doubt we’ll have a great night with such impressive beds. I’m sure Ernst and I will love them. Right, Ernst?” He turned his head towards a horrified Curt, laughing warmly, then back towards the hostess. “Oh, but you’re invited too, of course - unless you want to let us two honest comrades have our privacy...”

Curt almost interjected. Of all the things he didn’t expect from Owen, flirting with a hostess was one of them. Was he  _ actually  _ mad? Curt was about to say something really stupid, but as he he saw the woman’s reaction, he started to see the outlines of Owen’s ruse. The hostess simply looked lost, her smile frozen in polite confusion. The way her eyes darted around betrayed the fact that she had, in fact, not understood a word of Owen’s German blabbering. All she could understand was his overly flirty expression, and the wink he used to punctuate his sentence. So instead of asking anything further, she preferred to nod, offer a ‘Good night!’ and flee from the compartment to hide the rushing red on her cheeks.

Ignoring Curt’s stunned and fascinated gaze, Owen swiftly closed the door behind her, not even concealing the pride in his smile. He seemed to relish in his success for a moment, then turned towards Curt with a sudden seriousness.

 

“Right. Now that this is out of the way, let’s try to get organized while we can.” He spoke quickly but clearly, his voice purposefully hushed. “From what I know, you’ve been told the bare minimum about this whole mission, but I’ll try to sum it up for you. It’s been quite clear for a while that there are... questionable activities happening in Sverdlovsk. The agency suspected that there might be a nuclear weapon in the works right now, so they sent me here to investigate. And in the meantime, keep an eye on you.”

Curt frowned, taking it all in, but still not understanding Owen’s intent. “Okay, but… doesn’t letting me in on all of this compromise your mission?”

Owen shrugged, averting his gaze from Curt’s for the first time in this conversation. “It’s harder if you don’t know the details.” He didn’t elaborate, but Curt sensed that there was something more he wasn’t saying, a reason more selfish than serving his agency. He didn’t get the chance to press him on it.

“Anyway, they think the train might be used to transport the plans of the weapons, or even early prototypes. I already had some doubts before, but now I think we’ve established that our two little friends are involved. They’re probably just being used to transport the plans from point A to point B. We just need to intercept their -”

“Wait, why are they in the same compartment, then?” Curt interrupted. For once, he had something even remotely smart to say, so he wasn’t going to pass it up. His thoughts brought him back to earlier that day, when Owen had barged into the wagon, claiming his place. The KGB’s actions were never hazardous.

“I know, it seems absurd. But we might just have to accept that the KGB did it for simplicity.” Curt picked up a slight irritation in his voice, as if the interruption had pricked him. “Trust me, based on my briefing, I’m almost certain that they’re both in this.” 

Curt was dubious, but he still nodded, knowing that offending Owen again wasn’t exactly cooperation. He was itching for some action, and he needed Owen to hear him out. “If you say so. But what’s simple for them can become simple for us. If they’re both here, we might as well apprehend them now, while we’re in the same place. So I say we -”

“I just knew you’d say that.  _ Of course not _ ,” Owen retorted with a roll of his eyes. “We’re unarmed, in a closed space, and in enemy territory. We are not acting reckless.” Owen’s strict gaze made Curt feel like a pupil again. Looking back on it, Curt’s idea  _ was _ stupid, but did Owen really have to be so categorical? Curt sighed, shaking his head in defeat. 

“Great. Looking forward to another uneventful day on this damn train.”

“We have to wait until we’re in Sverdlovsk, you know it as well as I do. Besides, this gives us time to keep gathering information - about a meeting point, another person involved, anything. Just try to look the least suspicious, you seem to struggle with that.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” Curt picked up on the playfulness of Owen’s last sentence, and frowned while turning towards his bunk, motioning that their conversation was over. His frown was really more like a pout, since he couldn’t deny that Owen’s plan was the wisest. The British man didn’t hold back his soft laugh. Already, the voices of passengers returning to their wagons started rising in the corridor. Owen leaned towards Curt, one last secret whisper before they would inevitably get interrupted.

“Oh, you know I didn’t mean that, love. Don’t let my meanness trouble your peaceful sleep tonight.” Still as cryptic as always, he winked, and Curt hoped his face wasn’t as red as the hostess’ earlier. As fast as he had come, Owen was gone and turned towards his own bunk, at the very moment the compartment door slid open. Curt swallowed and worked on undoing his tie, ignoring the gazes of the men in the back of his head. They’d all sleep in their day clothes tonight. In a confined space like this, lack of modesty was still disapproved of, the sign of something no man dared to talk about. Curt had enough on his plate to deal with this as well.

When all but one light were off in their wagon, while he tried to get comfortable in the cramped bunk, Curt’s eyes traveled to the side and caught the sight of Owen, already at peace in the opposite bed. The British man smiled at him, a simple gesture so unexpected that Curt only managed to smile back. A fleeting moment later, he came to his senses and turned away. 

 

Later, during the long night, the rusty noises of the ongoing train that had lulled him during the day woke Curt repeatedly. It was in those stolen moments of waking solitude, under the soft glow of the moon, that he could study Owen’s face, blurred by the dark. As his eyes traced the outline of his thin nose, the endearing shape of his jawline, and his lips curled into a serene smile, Curt could only wonder why the universe was playing him like this.

 

***

 

The next morning, the sun found its way through the gaping curtains, waking the grumpy men. The side effects of the vodka were settling in: headaches and nausea plagued both the least experienced and least careful. With as much magic as the night before, some hostesses reverted the bunks back to seats, while the others busied themselves with coffee pots, serving the eager passengers generous cups. Of all the men in their compartment, the one who seemed to have the most trouble staying awake was by far their perpetually nervous comrade. His attitude, however, felt different today. He was less fidgety, but more brooding. Curt couldn't quite put his finger on the aura he exuded; his eyes seemed almost threatening, holding some kind of menace. And most worrying of all, it was completely directed towards Curt. 

The latter tried to ignore the strange change of attitude and go about his business. But while minutes ticked away, his mind reeled to find an explanation. First, maybe he was suspicious towards Curt - or worse, maybe he had found out he was a spy; but somehow, that seemed unlikely. Nothing much in Curt's demeanor had changed overnight to betray his real identity. The second solution was that he questioned Curt and Owen's relationship, which seemed closer than it should be. Paradoxically, this was the least worrying option. His job was also to hide a secret with another, after all.

 

Thick tension clouded the air and slowed down the minutes of waiting, accumulated like heavy clouds slowly gathering before a storm. The landscape changed from welcoming countryside to bare plains, not yet turned vivid green by the start of spring. Curt hovered between being bombarded by his thoughts, and letting the gentle hum of the train soothe him. The rocky night had taken a toll on him. His attention level was nowhere near Owen’s, but even the latter seemed to lose his patience as time went on. Unsurprisingly, nothing much happened. Curt hoped that tongues would untie at lunch; but quiet and fatigue still hung in the air, and the passengers kept it at small talk. Back to expecting it was.

The sun was only starting to descend in the sky when a quiet mutter spread amongst the wagons. Sounds of excited voices and doors sliding gradually rose in the air, until soon the train bustled with anticipation and movements. In the distance, the smoke of chimneys and the unnatural colours of a city stood out against the sky. Finally, the end of the journey was near. Hostesses started to hurry and fetch suitcases, while tired men yawned as they wearily got up from their comfortable seats. 

 

The sudden ambient energy invigorated Curt. The train slowed down, and he got up with a new-found motivation. Owen watched him, staying still in his seat. The passengers exchanged niceties - It was a pleasure meeting you, What a meaningful journey, Have a great night, Thank you, You too; then Curt let an hostess take care of his suitcase and walked out into the corridor. The other men, and Owen, followed a few moments after. 

The train stopped in a huff of steam and grinding gears. Passengers stepped out into the grand hall of Sverdlovsk station, taking in the monumental decor. It was impressive, in a different way than Moscow’s. The architecture was arguably more simplistic and modern, but remained as imposing as the entrance of the palace of a Tsar. Curt was handed his suitcase and invited to follow a hostess along with a small group of passengers. In the midst of the commotion, Curt spotted the two targets, then Owen.

 

Now freed from the confined space of the train, they both knew this was the time to be more bold, and consequently more careful. It was now, in the short span of time they were to spend in Sverdlovsk, than anything could -  _ would  _ \- happen. And two days on a train had not discouraged Curt and Owen.

 

Quite the opposite.


End file.
